


In Which Rodney McKay Wears Skinny Jeans

by tvconnoisseur



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Crack, Explicit Language, F/M, Gift Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-21
Updated: 2011-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-15 20:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tvconnoisseur/pseuds/tvconnoisseur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grasping Hipster Rodney McKay enlists the services of Excellent Hipster John Sheppard to woo Inexplicably Hipster Samantha Carter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Rodney McKay Wears Skinny Jeans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [acaramelmacchiato](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acaramelmacchiato/gifts).



> Everything I know about hipsters I learned from Urban Dictionary.

Upon graduating from university with a degree in physics, Meredith Rodney McKay got a job with the United States government. He couldn’t tell you the details about it—it was very top secret—but it did mean he had to move from Vancouver to Washington, D.C.

The move had not been difficult. He and Jeannie hadn’t talked since she married that good-for-nothing Kaleb—blah blah vegetables blah blah Oscar Wilde—and it wasn’t like he had many friends, so picking up and leaving was relatively painless.

Of course, working with Samantha Carter didn’t hurt at all. Sam was just an intern for the summer, but she was insanely smart and insanely hot. Not that she would give him the light of day, but he would work his way in. Somehow.

He found out that she worked weekends at the Gate Room Café and began to formulate his plan of attack. He figured the best way to seduce her would be away from any environment where his seductions could be construed as sexual harassment. (Of course hopefully it would lead to harassing her sexually at work—really, having sex on top of a space ship? Literally out of this world.)

The first time he came in, the moment she looked at him with those dazzling blue eyes, he thought he would be sucked into them like a wormhole. She looked unlike the polished collegiate intern she was at work. Gone were the button-down shirt and black dress pants. Instead, she was decked in a shirt advertising some band he’d never heard of (maybe they were popular in America?) and jeans so tight he almost thought he could see her lady parts peeping through.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Funny that you work here,” he answered as nonchalantly as he could manage. “I come here all the time for coffee.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really,” he responded matter-of-factly. “So….I would like a coffee.”

She looked at him, half expectant, half exasperated. “Yeah, and?”

Rodney wasn’t the type to go to coffee shops. He’d always just steal some from the employee lounge. He feverishly looked up at the menu above her head. “And, uh, milk?”

“Full, 2%, skim, soy?”

“S-Soy,” he answered. “I have a delicate palate.”

“How fascinating,” Sam responded flatly. “Our special of the week is a lemon poppy seed muffin. Would you like a lemon poppy seed muffin?”

“No no no no no,” Rodney said shaking his head. “I’m deathly allergic. The teeniest bit of citrus zest will send me into shock.”

“Really?” The look on her face was not quite concern, but more so _Now I know how to kill you_.

As she poured his cup of coffee, Rodney glanced back behind him. A line had formed. He wouldn’t get a chance to loiter and talk to Sam like he had planned. He had to seduce quickly. “I like your outfit,” he tried, fumbling. “Those pants. Nice.”

She rolled her eyes. “Mhmm.”

“Is—Is that a thing you’re trying to do? Like, um, my sister dyed her hair pink for a while and wore black all the time.”

Sam stared at him distastefully. “It’s not a thing.”

He was crashing and burning. “Not a—not a ‘thing’ thing. I just mean—”

She handed him his coffee, taking extra care not to touch him. “Tips go in the jar,” she said. “Next!”

***

Rodney spent that night researching what sort of subculture Sam was trying to emulate. To be quite honest, he had taken little interest in the many and various ways people attempted to be unique within the population. His remarkable inside intelligence was so great that there was really no need to express it outwardly. But if he needed to dress like pre-pubescent, androgynous boy to gain the love of Samantha Carter, he would do it.

This “hipster” movement seemed to be one of those expected stages of youth. It was marked by disenchantment with the establishment and a desire to create a subculture highlighted by the ideals of intelligence and pretentious, discerning taste concentrating on alternative artists. Youths wore clothing that Rodney didn’t even know came in adult sizes.

Rodney could definitely handle this. He was highly intelligent—check—unabashedly judgmental—check—and had very little shame when it came to his wardrobe—check.

The next day, he would walk into the Gate Room Café prepared. He wore a fedora and a scarf along with the tightest pair of jeans he could find. To his surprise, they completely accentuated his thunder from down under. In addition, he played some artist named Arcade Fire (seriously, who was Arcade Fire?) over and over while reading up on philosophy and poetry on Wikipedia to get into the appropriate hipster mindset. Samantha would be seduced by first glance.

When he entered, Sam’s eyes grew wide and she almost dropped the cup she was holding. “Holy shit, Rodney, what the fuck are you wearing?”

Rodney waved off her question, but posed carefully so that his tightly wrapped specimen was facing her direction. “Who cares what I’m wearing? Let’s talk Proust.”

Sam looked at him, obviously speechless due to his undeniable mastering of hipster culture. “Uh…”

“Samantha Carter. You’re looking Dante levels of hot.”

Rodney turned around. There was a tall, handsome man wearing an ironic smirk. He was in his mid-twenties with dark, messy hair. He wore aviators and a cowboy button-down shirt with regular fit jeans and bright blue sneakers, as if to say, _Your hipster skinny pant bullshit makes you look like a girl_ or maybe just _I’m not shoving my enormous junk into my girlfriend’s pants because said enormous junk would not fit_.

He gave Samantha a head nod. “Sam. The usual.”

She gave him a huge grin in return. “You got it, John.”

John leaned against the counter and took off his sunglasses. “You know, while you’re at it, can I get a lemon poppy seed muffin? Looks like some tasty shit.” John looked appraisingly at Rodney, who shrunk almost instantly. Looking into John’s eyes was like looking into the eyes of an enormous puppy dog who could either lick you soundly or bite your head off. Rodney didn’t know what he would rather have John do to him. “You new?”

“Just moved here from Vancouver.”

“Canada? Fuck, why would you leave? Universal healthcare, Mounties. America’s like Canada’s ass. Right, Sam?”

Sam nodded, handing John his muffin. “A flabby ass, too.”

Rodney was already not fitting in. Couldn’t he as a Canadian also be a dissatisfied and disaffected youth? Why the hell would he be wearing crotch-smothering black skinny jeans if he weren’t a dissatisfied and disaffected youth?

“Canada is—I mean—Canada certainly isn’t exactly North America’s perky breasts. I admit to some sagging.” The words came tumbling out before Rodney realized he had taken the metaphor too far. “Not that—breasts don’t have to be perky all the time. Sagging is okay. Your breasts are great, Sam.” Her eyes widened and Rodney mentally convulsed. “Not that they’re okay because they’re sagging. Because they’re not sagging. They’re perky. But they’d still be good when they aren’t perky. Not that they’ll ever not be perky because—”

“Dude, chill.” John rolled his eyes. “Canada, man. That’s your issue. You care too much about that nicety bullshit.” John looked at Sam. “Who is this guy?”

Sam sighed. “John Sheppard, Rodney McKay. Rodney does a bunch of top secret shit where I’m interning. John fucks around literally and figuratively.”

John gave her a bemused smirk. “Speaking of fucking around, Sam, are you going out with me and Liz tonight? Ronon said he knew some people having a thing around 11.”

Sam shrugged. “Sure, whatever.” She bent down and opened the fridge. “Dammit, we’re out of milk. Ugh, I’ll be right back. Make sure this one doesn’t eat any of that muffin,” she said, pointing at Rodney. “It could kill him.”

After Sam went into the back, Rodney turned to John. “You’re making me look bad!” Rodney hissed. “You're not even wearing a fedora!”

“Rodney, are you into Sam? No offense, but she’s balls-to-the-wall more hardcore than you. She’s a black belt or something. Plus she’s a genius. She and I met in a Mensa meeting before we realized they were just a bunch of elitists propagating a bunch of mainstream crap.”

Rodney’s eyes grew large. “ _You’re_ in Mensa?”

John scoffed. “Not anymore. I don’t need a label to prove I’m smart.” John crossed his arms. “Anyway, you need to chill if you want Sam to like you.”

“I am chill! I am totally chill! You should chill!”

John stared at him then shook his head. “So not chill. The whole point of this,” John said, gesturing to Rodney’s getup, “is that you need to _not try_. Don’t get me wrong; your whole little outfit here is just lovely. But the most effort I put into this,” he gestured to himself “is whether to cuff my jeans once or twice. You need to _relax_.”

Rodney was about to protest for a second, but realized that John was right. He was trying too hard to impress Sam. Obviously, his crotch was probably impressing her, but she was totally the type that needed to be mentally stimulated as well. “Fine. What should I do?”

“Sam isn't that complicated. Just ask her if she wants to fuck some time. She does, awesome. She doesn’t, who the fuck cares?” John gave him a look, eyes twinkling. “I have a feeling this night is going to go your way.”

Rodney blushed. “You really think so?”

The smirk returned. “I know so. In fact, I’m going to wait over there so that you can get some alone time with her.” John raised his muffin in a toast and laughed when Rodney backed away from the muffin in terror. “You go, girl.”

John had meandered to the other side of the coffee shop by the time Sam returned with the milk. “Where’s John?” she demanded.

“He’s over there,” Rodney gestured. “Hey, Sam. I had a question for you.”

Sam sighed. “What, Rodney?”

“Um. Uh—” He looked over at John who gave him an ironic thumbs up. “Uh—Wanna fuck sometime?”

John wasn’t kidding about Sam being hardcore. Before Rodney could even react, she’d slammed his head into the countertop.

“What the hell is going on out here?” A man around thirty-five came out from the backroom. He was dressed in Salvation Army camo and his hair was already graying.

“This little fucker just asked me if I wanted to fuck him,” Sam spat out.

Rodney cowered, his vision still spinning. “I thought you wanted to.”

The man’s eyes flashed. “What the fuck. First you try to have sex with my girlfriend. Then you end a sentence with a fucking preposition. Get the fuck out of my café.”

Rodney grabbed his messenger bag and ran. It was three blocks until he stopped running and one more block before he heard laughter behind him. He turned around to see John, who was smiling at him.

Rodney looked at him angrily. “Why did you set me up if you knew she was hooking up with her boss?”

“Oh, Rodney. I’m going to have a lot of fun with you.” John swung his arm around Rodney’s shoulders. “First things first: we need to get you out of those jeans.”

“They make me look huge.”

John looked down at Rodney’s crotch and laughed. “How about we let me be the judge of that?”

**Author's Note:**

> In my defense, Rodney McKay would make an awful hipster. (You know, according to Urban Dictionary.)


End file.
